


Thorough

by Spoon888



Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Sticky, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Sub Megatron, Throne Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:41:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26172151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spoon888/pseuds/Spoon888
Summary: Tarn doesn't do things by halves.
Relationships: Megatron/Tarn (Transformers)
Comments: 27
Kudos: 162





	Thorough

**Author's Note:**

> A thank you fic for someone who wanted to see more Mega/Tarn.

Megatron was a majestic sight upon his throne, powerful thighs leading into a thick armoured torso, his huge helmeted head tipped up towards the overhead lighting. A strip of light highlighted a strong nose and generous Cupid's bow, but cast calculative optics in the shadow of his helmet's rim. His massive hands rested on each armrest, the thick black fingers of his left tapping a rhythm along the edge. Impatient. 

Tarn's hydraulics hissed when he came to a stop at the foot of the throne and shifted into attention, chin up, chest out, arms folded behind his back for his lord's ...inspection. 

The rhythm of Megatron's tapping faltered. 

He did not speak at first. Tarn felt a niggle of impatience at being made to wait for his instructions, and had to work to suppress the unprofessional urge to fidget. He had half-a-dozen appraisals to work through, and if Megatron had summoned him to add to the workload, he would much rather be told quickly. His flight here had already taken up a great portion of the cycle. 

Yet somehow, with Megatron's tense, stiff posture, Tarn did not think this assignment would involve a great deal of _administrative_ work. 

Megatron shifted, metal creaking in metal. 

"My lord-" Tarn finally broke the silence, hands clenching at the small of his back. 

"Fuck me," Megatron abruptly interrupted, voice echoing through the throne room sharply. 

Yes. Tarn had thought as much. 

There was no room for dawdling or hesitation. Megatron's commands were to be obeyed like the crack of a whip. Tarn proudly ascended the dais to the throne, burying any mounting sense of reverence and respect in proximity to his leader in order to fulfil Megatron's wishes to the best of his ability. 

Had Megatron wanted a submissive partner to keen and squirm at his every touch, he had dozens of sycophantic Vosians to choose from.

Tarn loomed over his leader, optics fixed on Megatron's dark face. Out of his peripheral vision he could see fingers digging into the armrests of the throne, bracing in anticipation. They shook, minutely, a movement only someone so close would have seen. He could hear Megatron's ventilations, quick and rattling. And Tarn hadn't even touched him yet.

"How?" He asked, honeying his voice into something low and sonorous and heavy enough to settle over Megatron and have his leader sinking into his throne with a shudder, his armour panels parting and joints loosening for supple flexibility. 

Megatron peered up at him through hooded optics, the faded light like a distant dying sun. "Hard." 

A sharp nod of acceptance, and Tarn moved. 

He grabbed Megatron behind the knee and hitched his leg up, propping it over the armrest of the throne and spreading his thighs. Megatron's panels stood out distinctly against the black plating of his hip, aft, and crotch playing, the first bowing outwards, the second leaking about the edges. Tarn braced a knee to the seat of the throne and blanketed Megatron into his own great frame. 

Strong fingers grasped at him for purchase, hooking in paneling, palming at warm, purple biolights. Tarn crouched over his leader, reaching behind and under him, and grabbed Megatron's generous aft, hitching it up to rest over Tarn's lap. A spike sprung free and Tarn wrapped his hand around it, pumping it hard and mercilessly, until Megatron's grunts became curses and a flood of hot fluid was spilling across his hand. 

The overload loosened Megatron, chased away some of his lingering inhibitions. Made him more pliant, and it easier for Tarn to do this to him. 

He was no longer manhandling the untouchable leader of the Decepticons, but a unrecognisably desperate mech in dire need of dominating. Tarn flipped him over, ignoring the gasp of discomfort and pain that came from Megatron clumsily knocking his knee against the seat of the throne and bumping his chin on the backrest. 

Megatron knelt on the seat of the throne, his hands grasping the top of the headrest so he was leaning against the scowling Decepticon insignia. Tarn mounted him from behind, listening to the creak of the throne and of Megatron's own taxed frame as both took his impressive weight. 

Megatron shivered against his front, tensing slightly when Tarn pressed his hips forward and rubbed his spike against the curve of his aft. He trailed a finger down Megatron's front, through the centre of his chest plates, over his waist, trailing it along the softened length of his spent spike. It twitched under his touch. Megatron's vents hitched. 

But it wasn't where Tarn was focusing his attention. His finger wandered lower and he pressed it into Megatron's soft, supple valve. The silicone walls flexed and gripped at him, textured rings and numbs working to draw any intrusion deeper. Megatron's fore-helm thunked against the back of the throne. He shook his helm, moaning, mouth open and panting. 

Tarn withdrew the finger after several indulgently slow pumps, and unceremoniously replaced it with his spike. 

It sank in like a blade through gel, an effortless slide of hot, stiff metal into pliant gooey mesh. Megatron cried out, thighs trembling, vulgar curses hissing from his vocaliser as Tarn began to move, drawing out until just the tip remained, before sinking back in to the hilt in sharp, but delayed strokes. Megatron yelled louder, vocaliser lifting into a pitch few would ever have the privilege of hearing. Tarn hummed in satisfaction, his voice the low base to Megatron's punctuating cries. 

But as Tarn moved faster, Megatron was getting _too_ loud, _too_ careless. 

Tarn wrapped his hand over Megatron's mouth to ensure no one outside the throne room would hear their leader losing control in such an undignified way. Megatron moaned loudly against his palm and Tarn adjusted his grip to shove two thick fingers into his mouth, picking up the pace of his thrusts as he rubbed his fingers over Megatron's tongue. Oral lubricants spilled from Megatron's mouth the same as lubricant oozed from his valve as Tarn's pounding spike displaced it. The throne room was filled with soft, muffled, wet noises. 

Slamming his hips into the beautifully pliant mech beneath him, the tip of Tarn's spike was now bumping the end of Megatron's valve -he could feel the rub of the gestation seal against his sensitive head. He pressed harder into his leader, grinding to work himself deeper with every inwards press, indulging himself in his own pleasure as he chased the gripping, tight feel of his leader's internals. 

He felt Megatron begun to overload and moved faster, losing some of his own self control as grunts began to escape his vocaliser. He pressed his fingers deeper, until he heard Megatron choke on them, and then the cresting wave of overload came over him, blinding him, numbing him, and alighting him all at once, a sensation that spread out from the base of his spike and the pits of his tanks to every corner of his frame. He lost himself to it and let instinct guide his movements, slamming Megatron against the back of the throne and pinning him in place with a hand on the back of his helmet for the last and most brutal moments of their frag. 

When the fog cleared and Tarn came back to himself, he was still dazed by the afterglow. 

He eased himself out of Megatron's ruined valve, now spread and open where before it had been tight and elastic. Megatron was panting against the back of the throne, seemingly unable to summon the strength to straighten up, let alone turn around. Tarn offered him a hand, knowing it was his duty to ensure his leader was set back into a dignified position before he left, lest someone come snooping and find his leader in such a compromised state. 

No one had any right to see such a sight save himself. 

Megatron took his hand begrudgingly, his gyros still resetting as he swayed and stumbled. He slumped back against the throne, panels still open, thighs and throne seat stained, oral lubricant smeared around his mouth. He was loose and supple, like every strut had been removed from his previously stiff frame. 

Tarn felt a unprofessional rise of pride fill his chest. 

Megatron flicked his fingers dismissively. "You can go." 

"Your panels, my lord," Tarn reminded him politely, his gaze ever so professionally set on Megatron's face. 

Megatron glanced down at himself and pulled a face, but the panel didn't activate to close and preserve his dignity. Under the mask, Tarn arched a brow. 

Megatron could tell. He could always tell. 

"Wipe that look off your face and get out," he muttered, lifting a hand to his forehead like he had a headache. "I need to be alone." 

He looked like he was preparing to take a nap, rather than to do some impressive Decepticon brooding, but Tarn didn't comment on it. He was more than used to these fortnightly events, and his leader's ...coping methods. 

Perhaps one cycle Megatron would allow them to do it in a berth.

Then, without having to worry about damaging the ancient throne, he could be _particularly_ thorough with him.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Justices](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26198365) by [AsYouCommand (OminousHummingObelisk)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/OminousHummingObelisk/pseuds/AsYouCommand)




End file.
